wild at heart (w&d lynch, w. barry gifford)

Lynch lets his hair down. One of Lynch’s greatest talents is the use of dramatic tension. Constructing a scenario where you expect terrible things to happen, and holding off and holding off until, finally, they do, or they don’t. He is a master of mood, knowing that the audience is trapped in the cinema, they can’t escape, and he can persecute them as much as he wants. There is something sadistic about horror, and Lynch, genial figure though he is, knows how to exploit his dark side. Yet, in Wild at Heart, the director chooses to forego this. From the opening sequence, where Sailor kills his would-be assassin in brutal fashion, it’s all blowsy surface action, dialled up to twelve. The Cape Fear reference, which Scorsese would later echo, tells us we’re headed on a wild ride, which isn’t going to have any great subtlety. Cage and Dern have a ball, overacting to their heart’s content, full on Dennis Hopper mode from the word go. It’s an end-of-the-eighties movie, big shoulder pads, Duran Duran, that kind of aesthetic. Post the politics of the seventies, that brief spell between the Cold War and 911 when mindless violence could still somehow be portrayed as more innocent. Something Lynch revels in here, not least in the decapitation of Bobby Peru, an iconic moment for a director giving himself free ride to go over the top. In some ways it feels like the work of an auteur who has temporarily lost their way, but nonetheless is happy to be lost, to go out on a limb in some faraway Texas holdout. We tend to look back at a director’s career and impose a pattern of conscious and coherent decision-making on it, but the film industry doesn’t work that way, and Wild at Heart feels like an outrider. 

perdita durango (w&d álex de la Iglesia, w. jorge guerricaechevarría, david trueba, barry gifford)

Emerging from de la Iglesia’s bombastic movie, I was told that it went down a storm in Mexico when it came out, back in the twentieth century. It would be worth analysing why that would be, given that the Mexican lead, Romeo, played by an over-the-top Javier Bardem (is it cosplaying when a Spaniard plays a Mexican bandido as a psychotic?) fits a stereotype of the kind of deranged, amoral killer which US governments warn are exactly the type of people they need to keep out. Much of the action takes place on or near the border itself, which Flavio Martínez Labiano’s flamboyant camera work depicts with swooping helicopter shots, pre-drone. As Romeo and Rosie Perez’ Perdita criss-cross across this border, wreaking havoc, they tread a fine line between charismatic anti-heroes and sadistic monsters. I guess if one identifies as an anti-hero, something which the us-and-them of the border encourages, then it’s not that hard a leap to identify with Perdita and Romeo. It’s an interesting contrast with other border fictions. In McCarthy, the gringos are the good guys, crossing into a biblical world whose protean mores they grapple with. In Villeneuve’s lurid Sicario, the Mexicans are just as amoral and sadistic as Romeo and Perdita, but with none of the charm. So in a sense, de la Iglesia’s operatic tale can be seen as a vindication of those who are usually vilified, and their arbitrary vengeful abuse of two young kids is a turning of the tables. On the other hand, a film which glorifies a rapist, (or rapists, because Rosie also gets in on the act), is perhaps harder to like in this day and age, even if this might be termed a film which clearly comes from another era and the kids seem to get off on it.

In many ways Perdita Durango feels like one of those macho films with a female lead that got given budgets back in the day. Perdita is second cousin to Betty Blue or Thelma and Louise or La Femme Nikita, even Run Lola Run, eponymous avatars of a kind of kick-ass femininity which still feels a long way from feminism.